You're a crampon salesman in Kansas, and shit is rough for
you. Nobody wants to buy crampons in
Kansas. Nobody knows what a fucking
crampon is. Do people in Kansas even see
mountains? We genuinely don't know,
we've never been.
But we know, just from our auguries, that your life is a
steaming heap of dung and that you're more or less doomed to repeat a cycle of
disappointments until you finally snap and try to take your own life,
unsuccessfully, by standing on a chair and rocking back and forth. Which is going to happen today!
You'll knock that chair right over and that extension cord
you were trying to hang yourself with will be taut around your neck, strangling
the life out of you. It'll dig into your
neck, cutting off bloodflow, airflow, threatening to pop your head off like a
cork in a bottle of champagne that's been shaken. But then, miracle of miracles, the cord will
snap.
Miracle for your pets, I mean, who are cats, who chewed the
cord, who made it snap. Not a miracle
for you. Your cats depend on you for
food and general welfare, so if you died their lives would be awful. You, you could've died and you would've been
fine. But you won't process any of this.
Instead, you'll take this as a sign from god that you need
to become some kind of new figure in your community. No mere salesman of Crampons, but an agent of
a Higher Crampon Power: a Crampon Preacher.
It'll go terribly, but for a few months you'll bang some
pretty insane underaged chicks, so that's something, we guess, or at least it
is by the standards of your worldview, pervert.
Congratulations Crampon Salesman!
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